


please come where it's warm

by vowelinthug



Series: that pirate aesthetic [3]
Category: Black Sails
Genre: 5 Things, Drinking, Fluff, Frottage, Light Angst, M/M, the massacre of a hat in the name of love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-31
Updated: 2016-07-31
Packaged: 2018-07-28 10:24:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,270
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7636531
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vowelinthug/pseuds/vowelinthug
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>5 Things Flint Learns About Silver (without learning anything about him) On the Road to Love</p>
            </blockquote>





	please come where it's warm

**Author's Note:**

> this is a prequel/sequel to "let me be your passenger", because ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ 
> 
> the first three are set before that fic, the last two are after. so if you read this "like the HECK you skipped over them getting together????" go read that one. here's a spoiler for it: Silver gets tattoos, and they bone.
> 
> the "pirate aesthetics" in this are so faint it barely counts but HERE WE ARE
> 
> (this gets really sappy, y'all)

* * *

 

I. He’s a friend to animals.

Silver had been passed out in the corner of Flint's cabin for a little over a day, and Flint was _fine_ , really.  

It had been a little over a day of action, Flint keeping it together to sail out of Charles Town, broker some kind of peace between Vane's crew and his own, ensure that Silver wasn't going to die anytime soon, and try to figure out their next move.

It was a world gone wrong, now. No more Urca gold, no more chance of redemption. No more Hamiltons in his life, no more James McGraw. Vane was an ally. Silver was silent. Nothing was what it should be.

In this world of opposites, what Flint really should be doing was _resting_.  Instead he drifted, from moment to moment, on high alert and constantly aching.

Earlier, there had been a pause, a moment of quiet, and Flint had been simultaneously struck with the urge to throw himself overboard and destroy everything in his room with his bare hands, and the urge had overcome him so quickly he'd had to sit down, suddenly nauseous. Then he'd noticed Silver's bandage bleeding, and he’d felt grateful at something to _do_ , even if the action was just seizing Howell and demanding him to make it stop.

Howell had insisted that was normal, it just meant the bandages needed to be changed, but to alert him first thing if he saw something other than blood seeping through the bandage, or if he noticed any strange smells coming through. 

Flint had stood there awkwardly, clenching his teeth and his fists before Howell took pity on him and stated no, he didn't need to repeatedly bend down and sniff Silver's leg. If it smelled strange, he'd notice.

So that call to action had been and gone and now Flint left sitting at his desk, with -- maps.

The crew was eager to know their next move. Flint was equally eager. They were making their way to Nassau, but any man who referred to it as "home" in his presence ran the risk of being run through with his broadsword. Nassau was not home anymore. Flint had left his home behind, propped up against a falling, smoldering fort wall.

Flint was staring at a map of the Caribbean blindly, willing a path to emerge before him, when he heard it - a soft, high pitched rumble near his feet. He looked down, startled, at blinking green eyes and a tail whipping back and forth angrily. They stared at each other for a moment.

“The fuck are you doing here?” Captain Flint asked the cat.

Randall’s cat said nothing, because it was a fucking cat. It stared at him for a moment longer before dismissing him and gracefully jumping onto the window seat where Silver slept.

“Hey, no!” said Flint, jumping out of his seat. “Get down!”

He took a step forward, and the cat flattened, claws digging lightly into the blanket on Silver’s stomach. The cat hissed, and Flint fell back in surprise. The only one (alive) who ever talked back to him was currently unconscious being smothered by fur in his private cabin.

Emphasis on _private_. “Get off of him,” said Flint. And then, through gritted teeth, “ _Please_ get off of him.”

The cat folded its paws underneath its body, settling down on top of Silver, and closed its eyes.

Flint hadn’t felt so discharged since he’d been forcibly removed from England. He considered the picture before him: a pale-faced, injured Silver, and the cat dozing in the sunspot that happened to be falling right on top of him.

No. There wasn’t anyway he could shoot the cat without potentially harming Silver. Or stab the cat with his sword. Or hit it with a book.

 Silver shifted suddenly, his face pained and his mouth opened in a gasp. Before Flint could move, however, the cat stretched out both paws until they reached Silver’s chest, and began to purr. Silver settled immediately, one hand in his sleep reaching up and landing on the cat’s back. The cat opened its eyes for a second, caught Flint’s stare, and then closed them again.

Flint kept looking at the scene in the window for a few minutes longer, to make sure Silver had really relaxed, and then. Went back to his maps. He suddenly felt more desperate than he had a moment ago, frantic in his search for a path ahead.

He kept an eye on the two by the window as the day progressed. The cat shifted positions a few times, chasing the sun, but never disturbed Silver’s sleep. At one point when he looked over, the cat had been curled into the crook of Silver’s arm, purring loudly. Another time when Flint happened to glance their way he saw Silver had bent his arm in his sleep so his hand was suspended in air, and the cat was furiously rubbing its face against Silver’s slack fingers.

Flint took no stock in the intelligence of animals. He didn’t honestly believe most humans had any either. But somehow the cat always knew the difference when Flint approached to check on Silver’s bandages to when he approached to try and chuck the cat out the room. The former was met with silence and disinterest, the later with an impressive display of yellow teeth and yowling.

The cat only got up in the middle of the day when Flint accidentally dropped a plate on the floor. The plate just happened to be filled with a little water and small portion of fish from his own lunch. The cat waited until Flint was back at his desk and looking in the opposite direction before sauntering over to the food, eating like it was doing Flint a favor.

By nightfall, the cat had moved up to Silver’s pillow, and was aggressively kneading Silver’s hair, its face planted in the curls. Flint was watching this both fascinated and horrified, keeping an eye out for claws too close to Silver’s face, which meant paying too much attention to the delicate features he usually tried to ignore - the gentle curve of his ear, the tender patches of skin between his cheekbone and his eye, where his eyelashes currently rested, still and long.

There was a knock on his door, and Flint was incredibly thankful for the disturbance. The pile of maps had only grown on his desk. Billy entered, and for a moment they talked about real, wonderfully solid things, like how all the men on this ship wanted to kill each other, when Billy interrupted himself.

 “What’s Betsy doing here?”

 Flint blinked. “ _Who_?” The idea of any woman in his cabin was both absurd and appalling.

But Billy was looking over his shoulder, and Flint followed his line of sight to see the cat, apparently Betsy, still violently kneading Silver’s hair but had lifted it’s head and was giving them both a glazed, reproachful look.

 “She’s been in here all day. I--” _couldn’t get her to leave_ , Flint did not say. “--didn’t think she was doing any harm.”

Billy nodded. “She probably misses Randall.” Billy looked at the cat sadly. While Randall was pretty low on the list of losses Flint had endured the last 48 hours, he could understand at least the cat’s motivation for seeking out the solace of Flint's cabin. At least Betsy got to curl up next to Silver while she mourned.

Not that Flint wanted to curl up to Silver.

Flint saw Billy’s eyes sweeping over Silver’s prone form, the indentation in the blanket where his leg ended below the knee faint but still visible. Flint felt the absurd compulsion to tell him to stop.

“They’re putting it to a vote tomorrow, you know,” said Billy abruptly. “He may wind up being your new Quartermaster.”

They both took a moment, each remembering the first conversation they ever had with John Silver. It was remarkable, to be perfectly honest, he’d made it this far with only one less limb.

“Have you decided who you’re voting for?” Flint was genuinely curious.

Billy snorted. “I know more about him than most of the men, the shit he put us through. But. I know he saved all our lives when you were in Charles Town. And I overheard one of Vane’s men talking, saying they had been trying to get Silver to give up the names of crewmen willing to betray you and the rest of us to sail out of there. I don’t know why they singled him out, but I guess we know what his answer was.” Billy contemplated Silver’s leg another moment, before looking back at Flint. “I think I may trust him not to put up with your bullshit, however.”

Flint resisted the urge to laugh in Billy’s face. The only way he and Silver had ever been able to get through a day without killing each other, by simultaneously putting up with each other’s bullshit.

“Besides,” added Billy, “he’s already got Betsy’s vote.”

 “What do you mean?”

“That cat is one of the most foul-tempered creatures I’ve ever seen,” said Billy, arms folded. “I’ve only ever seen her take to Randall, who fed her twice a day for _years_. And _this_ one manages to charm her in his sleep.”

They both looked over at Betsy. She blinked serenely at them before burying her face back in Silver’s curls.

“He’s a hard man not to like,” Flint said absently, his eyes trained on the tenseness in his brow and the light sheen of sweat in the candlelight. He didn’t even notice Billy was leaving until he heard the door open.

“Do you mind, keeping the Betsy business between the two of us?” Billy sounded strange. Amused? Flint didn’t know he could sound like that. “If the others found out she’s taken a shine to him, it would dangerously sway the vote in his favor. Want to make it a fair fight and all.”

Yes, Billy, because he really wanted his whole crew and _Vane’s_ whole crew to know he spent the day looking after John Silver and Betsy the cat.

By the time he was ready pass out, the candles were an inch high and his maps no longer curled at the edges. The cat was wrapped around Silver’s neck like a woman’s shawl, and since he couldn’t remove her and he couldn’t leave his door open, the cat would have to remain through the night.

He thought the sound of Silver’s breathing would disturb him, or the worry of what the creature lurking in his cabin could get up to without supervision, but he was too exhausted and raw, lying in his cot and feeling as though his bones were sinking into his skin, feeling as though he could slip right through the cracks in the wood, down to the hull, into the sea, and become foam.

But he didn’t, because he had the cat to worry about, and the small sounds Silver made in his sleep were altogether calming.

He didn’t drift to sleep. He was awake one moment and asleep the next, like pages turning in a book. Hopefully a path would appear to him in his dreams.

 

 

 

II. He’s generous with his time. 

Flint tried to storm into his cabin. He flung the door open and stepped inside, but didn’t see the door start to swing back closed. It hit him hard in the arm and he stumbled.

He hadn’t seen the door because his whole left eye was covered in a bandage.

“Jesus Christ,” said Silver, who had turned around in his chair when the door banged open. He took in Flint’s bandaged face, the book in his lap slowly closing. “Are you trying to steal my thunder?”

Flint scowled. He did so extra hard to compensate for the lack of eye. At least Silver had the good sense not to sit in Flint’s chair while he was out rampaging.

That was what Silver called it. _Rampaging_. Privately Flint liked to think of his attempts to rid the world of any and all British authority from the bottom up as _cleansing_ , but he had the sense not to say it out loud.

Flint walked over to his desk, only bumping into things a little bit, and sat down heavily across from Silver. Silver continued to look at him, eyebrows raised.

Even though Flint was the one bandaged (and bruised, and still bleeding probably under his clothes), Silver looked like hell. It had only been a month since they left Nassau, their tentative treaty with Vane and Rackham and the gold secure, for now. Flint allowed Silver the use of his cabin most of the time, and didn’t kick him out when he got tired of him because….Because. Silver was mostly silent during his stay, only speaking up to ask him nautical questions about the tomes he was trying to absorb, or when he was walking around the cabin, learning to walk all over again with the iron leg. He’d heard Howell furiously whispering to Silver that he should not be using it at all, should focus on healing and getting comfortable with the crutches in the meantime, but Silver wouldn’t have it at all.

Looking at him now, with his beard growing in full and his hair long and untamed, his eyes rimmed red like he’d been crying or hadn’t slept in awhile, Flint wondered if he should take action and hide the boot from him while he was in bed.

If he ever went to bed.

Not that Flint cared.

“My eye’s fine, by the way,” said Flint angrily. “In case you were wondering.”

Silver’s lips twitched slightly under the beard. Flint hated how he noticed.

“So what happened, then?” said Silver. “Dedicating yourself to the one-eyed king in the land of the blind metaphor?”

He’d been distracted. The wife of the magistrate had thrown herself at him, leaping over her husband’s body. Flint had been prepared to knock her down and out of his way, but he hadn’t seen the steak knife from their dinner still clenched in one trembling hand. She’d slashed his face and had intended to keep slashing, and Flint, well.

Flint did what he always does.

“It’s just a scratch,” he said instead. “In an awkward spot. Doesn’t really need the bandages, but the cut keeps opening when I move and Howell said it could get infected if left opened, so.”

Silver nodded. “Maybe if your face were less expressive, the cut would stay closed. You really should learn to control those emotions of yours, Captain.”

Flint made a fist. “I’ve had a _day_ , Silver,” he said through clenched teeth.

Silver held up his hands in surrender, and silently went back to his book.

Flint set about straightening up his desk, which was covered in loose papers, sailing texts, maps, and seafaring equipment. Silver seemed to be throwing himself into learning how to be a proper Quartermaster, in a way he hadn’t bothered with when he was trying to be a cook.

He felt off-kilter with Silver ever since he’d woken up from his trauma-induced coma and told him that story about the Urca gold. Flint had become adept at deciphering Silver’s words. Each lie had a unique tell: lies to save his own life, lies that tell a grand story, lies to cover up more lies. Even when he was telling the truth, it had a particular quirk - Silver’s eyes going wide and his voice clearer than a bell, insistent in the rarity of what was being spoken was true.

But after he’d gotten the painful words out about Rackham going after the gold, he’d shifted a little, and quietly, before Flint even realized what was happening, Silver moved the blanket away from what was left of his leg and saw it for the first time. Silver had always seemed to Flint the most collected and sure, even every time Flint had threatened him, but not this time. Silver had been looking at his stump, breathing hard, and he had begun to cry. Overcome with panic and agony, Silver had wailed, panting, clutching at his bedsheets, trying to get away from it, retching emptily as there was nothing in his stomach to expel. Flint had first approached him in anger during his story, but had fallen back many steps in shock, hands outstretched and calling out to Silver, but Silver hadn’t heard, just kept repeating, “no, no, no, no, no,” and had started squeezing and scratching frantically at his thigh, drawing blood, and Flint had run to get Howell and Billy and together they’d held Silver down, too strong in his frenzy and spitting curses and damnations at all of them, so Howell could get something down Silver’s throat to put him back to sleep, and even in his sleep Flint could see him trembling, tears leaking from his closed eyes.

So Flint’s not really sure what to do about Silver anymore. He had no way of knowing if what Silver had told him about the gold was true, unless he ever admitted to the lie. Flint wanted to hate him and he wanted to forgive him. Both seemed so easy, but the decision seemed impossible.

So he let Silver use his cabin to study and heal, but he never offered a kind word. He argued every point Silver made against him, but made sure everything he needed was in arm’s reach if it didn’t look like Silver could stand again for awhile.

Let him be undecided, and maybe Silver would get so frustrated he’d do _something_ to push Flint finally in one direction.

“Hey, Polyphemus,” said Silver after a while of semi-comfortable silence. “You’re bleeding again.”

As soon as the words were out, a drop of blood dripped on the moon charts he’d been trying to organize.

“Damn,” Flint said. He leaned back in his chair, wiping at his face with the back of his hand. He reached into his jacket and pulled out a roll of bandages.

“Let me,” said Silver. “Stay there.” With effort, he stood up, and using the desk as a brace he circled around. He sat on the edge of Flint’s desk, right on top of the charts, and that’s when Flint realized he wasn’t wearing the peg-leg.

Silver held his hand out wordlessly, and Flint gave him the bandage. He set it in his lap and reached up to start undoing the bloody mess around his head.

“Good thing you cut off all your hair,” said Silver, though he didn’t sound like he meant it. “This would be hard to keep straight otherwise.”

Flint’s vision was obscured entirely by Silver’s arms. His skin had paled in the months he’d spent away from the ship’s deck. A vein stood out along the line of muscle. This close, Flint could smell him, an unusual combination of sweat, paper, recently lit matches.

He looked up with one eye as the bandages unwound around his head. “When did you read _The Odyssey_?” he asked.

“I read it as a child,” said Silver, concentrating. “When I first set sail, I pictured myself as Odysseus, off for grand adventures.”

Flint blinked, one set of eyelashes fluttering against the rough cotton. He wanted to ask if that meant Silver, like Odysseus, had left his home to fight a war, but he couldn't stop himself from asking first,  “Does that mean you have someone waiting for you somewhere?”

Flint knew Silver’s tells for all his different kind of lies and all his truths, the double-blinks and the quickened breaths, the turn of his mouth. There was one kind of lie that took him forever to spot, singular because it has _no_ tells. When he lies about himself for no clear reason, when he’s lying for the sole purpose of hiding himself, his face is blank, smooth, easy, giving nothing away.

“No,” Silver lied.

The bandage came away at last, the blood sticking just a little, and he’s reminded harshly of a time not too long ago, in his kitchen with Miranda, bleeding all over her floor like he’d been doing the last ten years. It felt like a punch to the gut.

“Sorry,” said Silver, mistaking his wince for pain. “That looks a sight more than a scratch. It’ll scar for sure.”

The cut went diagonally across his forehead, stopping at the tip of his eyebrows, skipping over the bump between his eyes and continuing an inch down the side of his nose on the other side. She had split him in two. “Just a small one. It’s not that deep.”

“It’s good she missed your eyes,” said Silver. He reached for a mug sitting at the corner of the desk, sniffed its contents, then dipped a clean end of one of the bloody bandages into it. He started wiping away the blood from Flint’s face absently.

Thomas had loved his eyes, said they matched the sea he held in his heart, could be calm and tranquil or rough with a tempest. Miranda said she liked to dress them both up in green if they couldn’t get Flint to change his uniform, for the way they brought out the color and shine in his eyes. “Why do you say that?” Flint asked Silver.

Silver looked down at him, confused. “So you can still see?”

Right. Eyesight was good, and necessary.

Silver continued to wipe the blood off his face, probably longer than was necessary but he seemed distracted by the task. After a moment he blinked and dropped his hands, leaning back on the desk.

“The bleeding’s stopped. Probably should let it dry for a moment before wrapping it up again. You just need to stop emoting.”

Flint frowned. “I don’t emote,” he said as he felt a small trickle of blood leak from the corner of the wound.

Silver tisked, coming at him again with the rag, brushing away the trail gently.

“You’re quite nurturing, you know,” Flint said, unable to stop the small smirk from emoting on his face. “I wouldn’t have expected it, to be honest. You’re starting to act a bit like a mother duck with the men as well. They’re going to be coming to you to get their splinters out so--ow!”

Silver swiped at the cut roughly, scowling. He let the bloody rag fall to the floor and picked up the clean bandage.

“Careful, Captain. I _am_ in the position of power here. I could easily tape your mouth shut.”

Flint was suddenly reminded of a time when he was a boy and he’d fallen out a large tree behind his grandfather’s house. He had lain flat on his back beneath the swaying leaves, the sun warming his face, the wind knocked from his completely. He didn’t understand this sudden compulsion to ask Silver personal questions, when he knew exactly what the response would be. Maybe it was the face of the woman who’d cut him still in his mind’s eye, the reflection of the man he was letting himself become shining in the wet of her blood on the floor, that made him want to feel a tangible, if fleeting, connection.

Not knowing why, Flint quietly asked, “Have you done this before? Taken care of other people?”

And not knowing why, Silver lied, “No. I’ve only ever looked after myself.”

Flint let him work silently, afraid another question might send Silver running. When his face was all bandaged, Silver’s fingertips trailed against the cotton for a moment, just above the ridge in his brow, before removing himself completely.

“Be more careful next time, Captain” said Silver, softly. “Remember: ‘a man who has been through bitter experiences and travelled far enjoys even his sufferings after a time.’”

His hands clenched in fists at his side, Flint watched Silver shuffle back to the other side of the desk. He sat down heavily in the chair opposite Flint with only the slightest groan.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Flint asked lowly, when it seemed clear that Silver intended to go back to his reading.

 Silver looked up, his eyes knowing and sad. “It means we can’t have two invalids running this ship, Flint. We’ll lose whatever shred of credibility we have.”

 

 

 

III. He has hidden skill-sets.

Flint made his way back to the Maroon camp, the first line of defense well under way on the beach. It felt strange, shouting orders for war on dry land. He didn’t feel much like a pirate captain with steady, if sandy, ground beneath him, and despite the fact that he was exercising his stricter tactical skills he’d picked up in the Navy, he didn’t feel at all like Lieutenant McGraw. He feared he was turning into an entirely new sort of beast.

He found Silver right away, conversing with Dobbs near their old cages. He took a moment to study them, not feeling much rush to have the conversation he needed to have with Silver. Dobbs was intently listening to Silver speak, an angry yet desperate look on his face. Silver didn’t seem to be arguing with him, and in fact seemed to talking low and unhurried. His face was sternly passive, giving nothing away in regards to topic. When he finally stopped, Dobbs said something short, looked maybe like just a single word. Silver nodded and abruptly turned away. Dobbs watched him go, jaw working tightly, but the anger had disappeared, his gaze at once full of fear and yearning.

Silver was walking towards Flint, and he had no excuse not to meet him in the middle.

“How’s the beach coming along?”

Flint shrugged. “It took them awhile to realize we’d need bigger stakes if we want them to stand upright, since most of it has to be buried. But they finally got there. How are things on this end?”

They looked up at the ridge where the other barricade was forming. The pillars were thinner, which meant there were twice as many to prop up. “A sight easier to shove into the ground up here,” said Silver. “And I think the Queen wants to have a word with you and Rackham about the chest later on tonight.”

Flint nodded. “We need to discuss something.”

“Fuck,” said Silver. “What now?”

Flint had never felt uncomfortable with honesty before. He lied when he needed to, sure, but the act of telling the truth, when it needed to be told, never bothered him all that much. He’d deliberate on which needed to be said in a given situation, make a decision, and then if it needed to be said, true or false, he just said it.

But this particular truth had a kernel of emotion tucked deep away inside it, and no matter how hard he tried he couldn’t get buried deep enough into the sand to keep it from toppling over.

“We need to talk about what you’ll be doing, once the fighting has started.”

Silver blinked at him. Then his eyes went cold. “You’re not about to suggest I hide with the women and children.”

The thought had crossed his mind. He’d have to knock Silver out and tie him up to get him in the hole and stay there, but if the Royal Navy didn’t kill him in the fight, Silver would surely slit his throat the minute the battle ended.

“No,” said Flint quickly. “But you obviously won’t be lying in wait with the rest of us across the river.”

“I figured I’d be on this line of defense, with Madi.”

Madi. Right. Silver’s female friend. Flint liked her okay. She had admirable command abilities.

“There’ll be alot of bullets flying,” said Flint. “And debris. It’d be hard to dodge. And I know you’re never keen to get in the middle of a fight--”

“I’ve been in a fight!”

 "Yet you make it your business to avoid them.”

“First of all, I can’t believe you’re using that as though pointing out a _flaw_.” He was raising his voice now. Everyone nearby was pretending to go about their business but were clearly eavesdropping. “You’ve seen me shoot people!”

“Up close!” Okay, so his volume was also rising. Christ, they should have taken this somewhere more private. “They’ll be up on that ridge there,” he said, pointing across the river. “That’s almost 200 yards!”

Silver breathed heavily through his nose, fist clenching. He wasn’t looking at where Flint was pointing. He was looking at Flint. “You don’t think I can hit anything from that distance?”

“Why would I think you could do that?” Flint wasn’t even sure he could, to be honest. Most men required peace and a few moments to steady their gun, and in a fight like this, precision was the first thing to go. One just aims in the general direction of the enemy and if the bullet doesn’t hit them, hopefully some debris or shrapnel does.

But now Silver’s aim was honed directly on Flint. Everyone had stopped what they were doing and were now blatantly watching the Captain and the Quartermaster arguing. Flint’s point had been that, while he knew Silver wouldn’t do the sensible thing and keep out of harm’s way when he can barely maneuver on the rocky terrain when people _weren’t_ trying to shoot him, he’d hoped Silver would have the sense to stand back and shout orders at the other people getting shot, like a real leader does. Not at the front with a gun in his hand.

But then Silver smiled. It wasn’t the small twitch of lips he normally gave nowadays, as though the energy it exerted to arrange his face was not any he could spare.

This was an old Silver smile, a wide, toothy grin worn by a man who could step over the body of a man he’d just literally stabbed in the back and hold out his hand in greeting.

“Wanna bet?” he said.

Shortly thereafter, one of the men had affixed a burlap bag full of grass on the other side of a river, dangling from a thin rope. Someone had painted a crude frowning face near the top, and had written on the middle: I JERK OFF TO KING AND COUNTRY.

All the men not down at the beach were standing on the other side of the river. Many, including Flint, had a spyglass in hand. Some were already looking at the dummy swinging from the tree through their telescopes as though it were about to do a trick.

Silver stood next to Flint closely. He hadn’t said anything since he fetched Longworth to get him a musket and began his march up the hill, sending the men into a flurry to set up the shooting range before Flint had even _agreed_ to the wager. He wasn’t even sure what they were betting. He asked Silver now.

Silver smiled, his new smaller lip twitch again. “Gambling’s not allowed on the ship, Captain. The only thing we’re accomplishing here is making someone look stupid.”

Flint raised an eyebrow. “You think any man here is crazy enough to call one of us stupid?”

Silver held his gaze, looking pleased with himself, as though he’d already done something. “Oh, I can think of two men crazy enough to do just about anything.”

Longworth approached with the gun, and had already loaded it for him. He handed it off to Silver and fell alongside the other men, spyglass at the ready.

Flint also turned to the barricade, lifting his glass to find the hanging target, leaving Silver alone to awkwardly shift his stance without anybody watching.

“We can’t be wasting the ammunition, so you only get one attempt.”

“Sure.”

“It’s definitely closer to 200 yards. It’s a difficult shot, you mustn’t let it affect your pride if you miss.”

“I’ve never been accused of having much pride, Captain.”

“I’m serious,” said Flint, wanting to turn to look at Silver but not trusting him not to wait until the second Flint looked away to shoot. “I don’t think even I could make this shot accurately.”

“Mmm.”

“You don’t--”

A blast to his right, and the harsh smell of gunpowder filled his nose, but it’s been a long time since a gunshot had the ability to startle him, so he was still looking right at the dummy when the gun fired.

 Through the glass, he saw the effigy shake suddenly, but no hole appeared. Everyone with spyglasses let out a disappointed sigh.

“Sorry, Silver,” said Flint, still looking at the dummy for some sign, “but it looks like you mis--”

The dummy suddenly dropped to the ground. Flint could see a cloud of dirt rise where it landed heavily.

Flint frowned at Silver. The men started murmuring, confused. Silver just leaned on the gun like a crutch.

“I wasn’t aiming for the dummy,” said Silver with a smile.

Flint looked at him for a moment before slowly looking back over the river. It took him a moment to find the spot again, but then he saw it. The thin rope, a fraction of the width of the dummy, all but invisible against the wooded backdrop of tree limbs and dried leaves -- frayed where the bullet made contact.

Flint kept staring through the telescope, not ready to look at Silver yet. He was afraid the expression on his face would be too obvious. He was sure he probably looked as stupid as Silver expected him to look, but not for the same reason. His face felt flushed and the ground felt unsteady under his feet, like he was back in the sand. Like everything had tilted in one direction, to the right - all of him, from his conviction and his certainty, the heated rush of his blood, down to every aching joint in his bones, now shifted just slightly towards Silver.

When he finally felt some measure of control over himself, he lifted his face. The men were all slapping Silver on the back, showering him with praise and talking to each other about the incredible thing they’d just witnessed. But Silver wasn’t acknowledging anyone. He was still looking at Flint, hip cocked, musket held like a staff.

“One day you’re going to tell me how you learned to do that,” said Flint after a moment.

"Oh, Captain,” said Silver, and maybe Flint hadn’t done such a great job at schooling his features as he’d hoped. “If I did that, how would I ever be able to keep _surprising_ you?”

 

 

 

IV. He can’t hold his liquor.

They were finally setting sail tomorrow, finally ready to retake Nassau from Governor Rogers. Flint felt divided on the subject. He felt anxious to get it over with, to cut and render and lay waste to everything standing in his path to freedom. He knew he was about to lead men to their deaths and he knew his reasons are on some level entirely personal. At one point he tried to deny his motives, before it occurred to him that everyone here was fighting for their own selfish reasons. He was not naive enough to think they fought alongside him because they loved him. Every man here wanted the same freedom he did and was willing to die for it, and his own reasons for longing for that freedom were as different as every other man’s, but no less valid.

At the same time, these peaceful weeks just raiding ships, like a normal pirate, had it’s merits. Everyone was in high spirits from the successful plunders, and it gave everyone a sense of what, concretely, they were fighting for.

But this may be their last night on solid ground. Their last night able to secure anything resembling privacy. Maybe their last night alive.

Flint was determined to get fucked. Thoroughly, as though it were his last night on earth.  

He’d told Silver as much that morning, to which Silver replied sleepily, naked, face still mashed into the bed mat, “What _else_ is fucking new?”

But then he’d got word something was wrong with the rigging on one of the ships, and he’d rowed aboard to try and assuage the situation, which then turned into another hours long meeting with Rackham and Blackbeard about the progression of their plans for Nassau, which they’d already hammered out in detail _ages_ ago but the problem with three proud, insane pirate captains was that everyone wanted to both take charge and let someone else do the hard parts.

By the time they’d set back for Maroon Island it was well after dark.

He didn’t _run_ back to the camp. But he didn’t _dawdle_ either.

When he made it back he can see a large group of people from both sides gathered around outside, some sitting on the floor, other around tables and campfires. Men, women, and children talking and laughing into the night, many with drinks in their hand, and for a second Flint wants to just - forget it. Forget the plan, the war, fucking England. Just stay here, in this night, and carve out a new home for himself forever in this moment.

He’s halfway into the camp, looking around, when he spotted Silver, and for a second he cannot breathe. A hollow pocket formed at the base in his throat and his stomach twisted so suddenly he actually put his hands over it in shock. He felt wrung out, lost, starving.

Silver sat at a table, unaware of him. He wasn’t wearing a shirt, no fucking surprise, and at this angle he could see the _Walrus_ tattoo on his chest, the rooster and pig near his hip bones, the stupid fucking severed foot on his upper arm. He was grinning drunkenly, a steel tankard in one hand and a thin cigar in the other, gesticulating wildly with whatever bullshit he was spewing to the men around him, all looking enraptured. His hair - all of it - was pulled back in a curled knot on the back of his head.

In the shadows behind him he could see Longworth, putting the shard of metal and hammer into a small bag. Silver had gotten another tattoo, it seemed.

 He’d been wrong, before. _This_ was the moment he wanted to stay locked in forever. Cool night air at his back, waves of warmth from the fires at his sides, and this vision before him, something he’d be content to look at until the end of time.

Then Silver looked right at Flint, and smiled. Okay, no, _this_ was the moment.

Flint finally got his feet moving again, and approached the table. Up close he realized just how drunk Silver was. His cheeks were flushed and his eyes glassy, and he looked so much like he did when they were alone, when he was on the brink of an orgasm, that Flint had to physically work to stay calm. But he smelled like the inside of a rum barrel, and when he turned to greet Flint he nearly fell out of his chair.

“Captain Flint!” Silver yelled. He put down his mug and his hand grasped at Flint’s sleeve, where he’d rolled them at the elbow. “Captain, I was just regaling the men with the harrowing tale of us two fearsome pirates wrestling with not one but _two_ great white sharks. Their might versus our strength, our spirit, and our determination, not to mention our desperation and starvation - it was hardly a fair fight, was it, Captain?”

 “Really?” said Flint. “ _That’s_ the story you’re choosing to tell?”

Silver pouted dramatically. “But it’s my _favorite_ story of us, Captain. Oh!” He turned back to the men around the table. “But have you heard the one yet about when he and I managed to apprehend a fully manned Spanish warship all by ourselves?”

“That’s not even remotely true,” said Flint, but the words dried up in his mouth because when Silver turned Flint saw the tattoo on the back of Silver’s neck.

 It was Flint’s flag. The skeleton, anyway, with the knife and the hourglass. It was his brand, it was _him,_ permanently on Silver’s skin for everyone to see. That symbol a decision he made with himself ten years ago - life would be the death of him, not any man or king. People saw that symbol, and they trembled with fear, because they knew it meant Captain Flint was approaching.

On Silver, like this, forever - it was so _obvious_. They weren’t really bothering to hide anything but they were showing off either. Every man had quickly figured out that as ruthless and fearsome as they each were separately, together are a unit they were more powerful by far, and not something to be taken lightly. Not the mention, rather than being too in Flint’s pocket on ship matters, Silver's familiarity resulted in him arguing with Flint even more than usual. But it was still a private thing, and they had no reasons to flaunt it.

This was a silent but _loud_ declaration, and he would have kissed Silver right there in front of everyone if Silver had been keeping at all still long enough for Flint to grab him.

Silver had just gotten to the part where he noticed the whistle hanging on the wall and had the genius and forethought to try and grab it, and Flint stood beside him during this painfully inaccurate retelling, because Silver still had a grip on his shirt. Then Silver tried to demonstrate how he’d leaned over the sleeping man to grab the whistle, and he nearly fell to the floor.

Flint pulled him back into the chair with his other arm while Silver didn’t even pause from his story. Flint was concentrating hard on not smiling instead of how warm and soft Silver’s shoulder felt in his hand. He was focusing so intently he didn’t notice someone tapping him on his other side. He looked over and saw Longworth peering at him, a little anxiously.

“I think he might need help getting back to his cabin, sir,” Longworth said quietly.

Flint snorted. “How much has he had, exactly?”

“Enough,” Longworth said grimly, but with a hint of amusement in his eyes. “But it’s not just that.” And he placed something in Flint’s hand.

It was Silver’s iron leg, cold and heavy, the metal coarse against his palm. Flint stared down at it in shock. He tried to picture Silver taking it off in front of all these people. It must have been the perfect combination of discomfort and intoxication, and he hoped to God it hadn’t been a huge production, because while he knew none of the men cared about Silver’s leg anymore, it wasn’t exactly something he liked drawing any attention.

But since Silver was still drunk, Flint prodded Silver in the side with the bottom of the of the peg-leg, interrupting his story and making him jump. Silver looked at the leg, then leaned forward to look at where it was supposed to be, puzzled.

“Were you just planning on hopping back to your cabin?” said Flint, poking him again with the leg.

Silver blinked up at him for a moment, and then his whole face brightened. “Why, thank you, Captain, for offering me your assistance in walking me back.” He downed the rest of his drink and stood up on his one leg. He started tilting in the opposite direction and Flint barely caught him in time, one hand circling around his waist.

“Goodnight, gentlemen,” said Silver solemnly, one arm thrown across Flint’s shoulders. “Eat, drink and be merry, for tomorrow we may die!”

Everyone at the table had been preparing to toast, but then stopped, confused, at the end of Silver’s declaration.

 “Just eat and drink,” Flint told them. He was met with a hearty cheer all around.

The walk back to the cabin was an interesting one. Flint was walking, half-dragging Silver, who was trying to hop along while telling a crude joke he’d heard that night involving a juggler and a prostitute. He cut off the joke before the punchline to throw up a little in a bush, the hopping proving to be a bit too much for him.

By the time they got to Flint’s cabin, they were both panting from exertion, and Flint all but tossed Silver on the bed. He sat up on his elbows, smiling benignly at Flint, who’d bent down to remove Silver’s boot. The peg-leg he left near the side of the bed.

“You’re a fucking idiot,” said Flint, working the laces of his shoe. “We set sail early tomorrow morning, and you’re going to have one hell of a hangover.”

Silver hummed, rubbing one hand over the back of Flint’s head. The hair was starting to come back in and was still short and soft. “My brother used to tell me hangovers only happen to people with a healthy mind, so I should be fine.”

 Flint tugged the boot off and paused. “You have a brother?”

Silver stared at Flint, expressionless, before smiling again, a little smaller. “Billy says all the crew are brothers. I have so many brothers. Not you though,” he assured Flint, pulling him closer. “ _You’re_ not my brother.”

Flint backed away. It was one of the hardest thing he’d ever done, and he _had_ in fact wrestled a great white shark. “You smell like a distillery. And we have to be up early tomorrow.”

The sad frown Silver gave him was truly epic. Then he said, “Won’t you at least kiss me goodnight?”

Flint sighed, moved in a little closer.

“You can’t kiss me goodnight with a shirt on.”

“Oh, I can’t?”

“Please, Captain. Give me something sweet to dream about.”

Eying him suspiciously, Flint whipped his shirt over his head and let it fall to the floor. Silver sighed happily, sitting up, committing every freckle to memory. Flint approached with every intention of a quick kiss, but he didn’t feel at all surprised when Silver grabbed him by the waist and pulled him down on top of him.

“Ha!” said Silver, muffled by the weight of Flint. “Never knew such an easy mark.”

Flint huffed, shifting to the side so he was only mostly on top of him, one leg resting between Silver’s thighs. His face sat on the crook of Silver’s neck, and with his hair tied up it gave him perfect access to the soft skin behind his ear.

“Am I going to fuck you tonight?”

“Absolutely not.”

“But you promised.” The pout was back, Flint could hear it without having to look. “Why not?”

“Because you’re drunk, and I want every moment we spend together to be special.”

Silver shifted so he was looking down at Flint over his nose with one eye, face scrunched up. “No, really.”

“Because you still smell a little like puke, and you have all the coordination of newborn foal with syphilis. At this point I’m not even sure you’d be able to find my arse with a map.”

Silver relaxed, fell back against the bed again. Then Flint felt one hand roughly grab his ass.

“Oh, look what I just found.”

“Go the fuck to sleep, Silver.”

Silver sighed deeply. “Fine,” he said.

 There was silence, and Flint felt himself falling asleep. He was slightly hard, which usually happened when he was lying this close to Silver, but it was an inconsequential thing, content to just stay close, crowding him. Flint often struggled with sleeping on land, his body too still, but sleeping on top of Silver like this, rocking with his breathing, calmed him like only a smooth sea could.

Then he realized he wasn’t rocking with Silver’s breathing.

“Silver,” Flint muttered, lips against his chest. “Is that your cock rubbing against my leg?”

Silver hummed again, which turned into a moan once he realized Flint was awake. “Oh, sweetheart, I can’t help it when you’re on top of me like this. You smell so _good_.”

Flint placed one hand on the bed to try and lift off, but one of Silver’s hands was still firmly gripping his ass, and the other wrapped around to hold him just above his ribcage. Flint could break free, of course. If he really wanted to.

 “Please, Captain,” said Silver, now riding Flint’s thigh in earnest. “I’ve been so hot for you all day, thinking about fucking you. I was gonna make you hold yourself while I opened you up for hours, kissing that sweet hole of yours. Oh, Jesus, you know how much I love tasting you down there almost as much as I love tasting your lips. Please, _please_ , just one kiss, just a little taste, _please_.”

“Jesus Christ,” Flint growled, kissing Silver’s mouth hard. His own hips were moving now, his cock hard against Silver’s hip. “You goddamn adolescent. Are you going to come in your trousers like a child?”

Silver whined, thrusting up gracelessly, scratching at Flint. “Oh God, I wanted to come in _you_ , Captain. I was going to fuck you so hard, so deep, you’d still be dripping with me by the time we reached Nassau. I want every pirate out there, the goddamn Governor and Royal Navy to see it, to _smell_ me on you.”

“ _Fuck_ ,” groaned Flint, and bit hard down on Silver’s neck, right near the sensitive spot of the fresh tattoo. Silver keened, dragging his nails down hard on Flint’s ass. Sober, Silver knew better than to do that too soon, because it had the tendency to make Flint come almost instantly, and Flint was so pent up from wanting this all day, so caught up in Silver’s presence since he first saw him tonight, that he knew he didn't have long.

Then Silver suddenly slipped his hand into the back of Flint’s pants. He slid along the crack before finding his hole, and didn't enter but just pushed down _hard_ and - Flint was gone, shuddering with release.

 Silver’s other hand drifted up to cup the back of Flint’s head, moaning a long stream of filth and cusses. He was working himself alone on Flint’s thigh, fucking up for friction, Flint now a boneless heap on top of him.

“God, Captain, I love you on top of me, I _love_ it so much, I fucking love--” Silver jerked sharply as he came, warmth spilling between their legs as he spasmed with the aftershocks.

Flint let go where he’d been sucking a mark on the side of his neck and they lay there, panting in unison. He let one hand drift up, let a thumb trace Silver’s nipple and over the words inked into his chest, felt Silver shiver beneath him despite the heat, and Flint smiled into his skin.

Finally, Flint decided he should probably get up, get a wet rag to clean themselves up, change their fucking pants because they had just fucking come in them, what the hell. But first, he had to _know_. Silver had never left any word unfinished as long as Flint had known him, and if he couldn’t ask now how his last sentence was going to end, in this moment (and truly, _this_ was the moment) then he might never be able to ask again.

But of course, as soon as Flint lifted himself up on both hands, he saw Silver was already fast asleep. He was turned towards Flint, his mouth slack, his eyes still beneath his eyelids. He snored softly, a content upward turn to his lips.

Flint was tempted to wake him, but figured waking up in disgusting trousers would be punishment enough. He shuffled out of his own pants, used the pant leg to wipe himself down before tossing them on the floor. He curled up around Silver, burying his face in his neck again.

 “Yeah,” Flint muttered into his skin, where no one would ever hear. “Me too, you little shit.”

  


 

V. He has terrible fashion sense.

Flint felt good, and for once he didn’t need to repeat it over and over in his head for it to become true. It just _was_ , and as he sat in his home -- the cabin aboard the _Walrus_ , anchored on the shores of Nassau -- he felt singularly whole for maybe the first time in his life. 

No more British presence on Nassau, the Governor a shell of a man on his way to home to his King. Eleanor had betrayed him, naturally. If he’d asked any living soul on the island (and a few of the dead ones), they would have told him they’d seen that coming a mile away. She’d assisted them into town, and after the bloodshed, Flint had personally escorted Rogers to his slightly smoldering ship. Many had questioned Flint’s decision to keep the Governor alive, but Flint remembered his horror -- a lifetime ago in another age, a different Governor of Nassau, his life being brutalized and torn asunder by men like him. Flint felt good about his decision, now. He wanted to be a different breed of pirate. Besides, let Rogers learn firsthand what a man became capable of once he is shamed and shunned by his homeland.

With that finished, Flint set about the next thing that needed to be conquered: everywhere else.

Sitting in his new home now, charting his next course, he wondered if he should be worried about his unexpected and slightly uncomfortable optimism towards life in general. He thought about a long ago conversation he’d had with Vane, watching with barely concealed rage the man toying idly with Miranda’s things. At the time, he’d been left with the suspicion that peace and freedom might be entirely antithetical concepts, unable to coexist without some measure of sacrifice from one of them. Now, he thought he might have been wrong, back then. Such things were possible.

And then John Silver ruined everything.

“What the _fuck_ is that?” Flint demanded.

Silver stood in the doorway, surprised.

“What -- Silver, stop looking around, you know I’m fucking talking to you -- what the fuck is that on your head?”

“You don’t like it?” Silver reached up and touched the monstrosity delicately. “The girl in the shop said I looked very dashing.”

“ _She lied_ ,” said Flint, throwing down his quill. “She worked in a shop. She’d have told you you look like King David to get at your coin.”

The abomination vaguely resembled a tri-corner hat of a dark, muddy leather, a size too large, with some sort of frill around the edges, and at least four feathers of different colors and length sticking out at odd angles, and it was entirely four fucking feathers too many. It was the most offensive thing Flint had ever seen.

Silver scowled at him, and made no move to remove it. It was so ugly Flint wanted to _eat_ it, just to get it out of his sight. “I think it looks good,” Silver argued. “It gives me an air of authority. People were rushing to step aside to let me pass on my way to shore just now.”

Great, now Flint was going to have to go on _another_ murderous rampage to get rid of anyone who witnessed his Quartermaster wearing this hat. It was the only way to dredge up an ounce of the respect Flint had been cultivating for a decade, that Silver had just swept away fully in the span of one afternoon.

But then Silver approached the desk and said, “I think you’re being a tad overdramatic, dear.”

And a wholly new cunning plan formed in Flint’s mind. He schooled his features so he didn’t give it away, and casually began clearing his desk. He said, “Air of authority, is that it? Are you angling to become a Captain, then?”

It wasn’t something they’d discussed. Gates had been his Quartermaster and had been content in his age to do so, only becoming captain when it was forced upon him. But Silver was at least ten years younger, and could easily obtain his own crew and ship. No one would even falter over his leg or question his ability to command. But it would mean another crew and ship - separate from the _Walrus_. Flint personally thought they basically ran this ship together anyway (would never utter the phrase co-captains out loud even if he had thought it before, once), but to some men, titles were important. Flint knew this for a fact, being one of those men.

But now Flint smiled at the look of shock on Silver’s face, caught off guard by the change in subject. “No, I -- that’s not what I meant. Captain.”

Flint stood up. Silver didn’t take a step back, but it looked like he maybe thought about it. Flint was still smiling, and he’d been told before his smile was very unnerving.

“You’d make a good captain, probably,” said Flint, stepping away from his chair. “Men naturally fall in line for you, though of course there’s more to commanding than that. You have to know instinctively where to lead them.”

Silver looked worried, like he thought Flint really suspected him of mutiny. “I _know_ , that, Captain. I wasn’t trying to imply --”

“But one day, maybe. I could see it. Captain Long John Silver.” Flint smiled wider as Silver swallowed noticeably, the stupid feathers in his stupid hat ruffling.

And then Flint said, “Would you like to try it on for size?” and gestured to his chair.

Silver stared at the chair. Then he looked back at Flint. Then he looked back at the chair.

“It’s fine,” assured Flint. “Really. A good captain knows when to encourage his crew to succeed.”

With an air of suspicion and confusion (a very good look on Silver), he approached around the side of the desk, making the mistake of going the same side Flint stood. Flint wasted no time plucking the unholy garment from Silver’s head, but before Silver could utter a complete protest, Flint tossed it easily on top of the desk and smiled.

“Have a seat,” he said.

Flint tried not ever to take advantage of the fact that he could move quicker than Silver, but. Emphasis on _tried_.

Silver had turned to sit, and before he realized what had happened Flint had a hand around his waist, spinning him just so he could fall back into the chair himself, pulling Silver into his lap with a gust of air.

Silver laughed breathlessly. “Ha, okay. Very cute, Captain. You’ve made your point.” He started to rise, so Flint put a hand on him to stop him. The hand happened to land right on his crotch, and began rubbing immediately. Flint smiled into Silver’s shoulder blade as he jumped from the contact.

“How does it look from here?” Flint muttered into his ear. “Enjoying the view?” He let his other hand find the opening of his shirt, reached inside to thumb one of his nipples.

Silver hissed, and then it turned into a small chuckle. “I suppose I could get used to it.”

 Flint began sucking a bruise into the side of Silver’s neck, blindly trying to undo the buckle of Silver’s gun belt one handed. Silver reached down to help, his other hand going up to grip Flint’s hair. It had almost grown back to its former length and whenever he talked about cutting it again Silver usually threatened to do vile and unspeakable things to him if he ever tried.

They got the belt off together and let it fall to the floor, Silver’s ass grinding down hard on Flint’s cock as he fumbled with the laces of his trousers. Flint reached into the first drawer on his desk and found the jar of oil he’d taken to keeping there. Silver lifted off for just a moment and Flint let him, just long enough to get his pants down the swell of his ass, just far enough down his thighs to get his cock free. Flint got one finger inside him, let his own moan at the glorious heat of him get drowned out by Silver’s louder, longer one.

“Jesus, Captain,” groaned Silver, clutching at Flint’s hair again as he rocked back on his finger. “Does this mean you really do like the hat?”

Fuck the hat. Instead Flint said, teasing another finger near his entrance, “Feel that? How _full_ you feel, how _open_ , like every part of you is on fire and you want nothing more than to use that flame to make the world burn? _That_ is what it feels like to take control of a ship. It feels like _fucking_ however and whenever you want it and it feels fucking _perfect_.”

He’s working two fingers into him now, curling them with practised ease to find that spot that makes Silver keen.

“Please, Captain, fuck,” Silver panted. “Oh God, fuck me, please. More, I need more.” He turned his head, pulling Flint by the hair to kiss him. At this angle it was awkward, barely a kiss, just open lips and desperate tongues. Flint fought with the ties of his trousers, his own gun belt left on but pushed up to his waist.

With his hard cock held loosely in hand, he gasped into Silver’s mouth, “Are you - can I --”

“Fuck, yes, _please_ ,” begged Silver, and Flint can resist anything on this Earth except that. He pulled his fingers free gently and lined his cock up. He slid up slowly, inching forward, holding onto Silver’s eager hips that kept rocking down. Silver spread his legs wider over Flint’s knees, his peg-leg suspended in the air while his toes touched the ground, giving him barely any leverage to work himself on Flint’s cock.

Finally Silver was fully seated in his lap. His head rested on Flint’s shoulder, and Flint allowed him the time he needed to catch his breath - content the way only being inside Silver made him feel.

After a moment, he felt Silver nod. “Okay,” he said. “Okay.” And Flint started to move, thrusting upward as much as he could at this angle. It wasn’t easy; he had to lift Silver up and down on his cock while his hips worked in the seat, Silver doing what he could to help with the limited purchase he had on the floor. Silver clenched tightly around Flint, startling a moan out of him, and for a minute he lost the plot, his cunning plan, ready to let Silver ride him into the sunset.

Then he pushed up suddenly with his hands, slipping out of Silver as he made them both stand.

 “What the fu--” Silver didn’t even have a chance to turn around before Flint pushed again, had him bent over the desk. He gripped Silver right under his left thigh, hoisted it upwards so his knee rested on the table, serving the double purpose of putting less strain on Silver’s leg and allowing Flint to slide back into Silver’s ass even deeper than before. Silver let him maneuver him however he wanted, resting on his elbows, hair hanging down onto the table. He eagerly met Flint with every thrust, cursing beautifully the whole time.

In Silver’s defense, Flint’s been told before he’s very distracting, which was why it took him a little while to realize he was getting fucked right on top of that thing he called a hat.

 “Hey!” Silver said. “Flint, hang on a minute, I --” He lifted one hand off the table to try and grab it out from under him, and Flint took advantage of his disbalance to drive forward, pressing him facedown into the table with one hand splayed across his back. Silver’s hands reached out to grab the other side of the desk, trying to lift himself up again but couldn’t get the proper leverage.

“Oh Flint, fuck you, you fucking _bastard_ ,” Silver moaned, writhing under him, his hip working mindlessly, at once desperate for Flint’s cock and trying to keep his own away from the hat. It was a lost cause, however, the hat already crumpled and starting to stain just from Silver’s pre-come. “You goddamn motherfucking _cad_ , you did this on _purpose_ , my _hat,_ oh fuck, shit, _fuck_. Harder, Captain, _please_ , I’m going to _kill you!_ ”

Silver couldn’t get a hand underneath him, and so he really had no choice but to use the friction of his cock rubbing against the folds of the hat. Flint imagined it was an interesting combination, his hard thrusts pushing Silver against soft feathers and worn leather. It seemed to be doing the trick, the way Silver was fucking back onto him with angry gasps.

Flint removed the hand holding Silver’s back and replaced it with his body, brushing Silver’s hair to one side to get access to his neck. Then he let both his hands fall forward to rest near Silver’s, and despite the curses he was still spewing, one of Silver’s hands entwined with one of Flint’s automatically.

Into his neck, over the insults, Flint said, “Love you too, dear,” and that’s when Silver came.

All over his hat. “God fucking damn you to hell, Captain Flint,” he sobbed, his back arching into Flint.

When Flint came a few moments later, pistoning hard into Silver with everything he had, he was laughing.

Flint let himself breathe, forehead resting against the back of Silver’s sweaty shirt. Then he pulled out Silver and stepped back on shaky legs, tucking himself back into his pants and adjusting his belt back down.

Silver lay across the desk a little while longer before standing, although he immediately fell back into Flint’s chair, trousers still bunched around his thighs. Flint’s come was probably dripping out of his ass all over the seat, which Flint probably deserved.

Silver was staring dejectedly at his ugly, rumpled hat, permanently stained with his come. All the feathers were bent and broken. It no longer resembled anything slightly close to a hat (not that it did much before), and now looked more waste discarded by the beggars down at the wrecks.

Silver sighed. “Fine. Do it,” he said. “You asshole.”

Flint hummed in agreement, picking up the hat carefully and bringing it to the open window.

"You don’t even want to know how much I spent on that,” said Silver.

“I really don’t,” said Flint, tossing it out to sea.

Flint stood behind his own chair, leaned on the back while letting his fingers card through Silver’s hair, untouched now by any hideous covering. He could feel it once again, that foreign, unnerving feeling - _good_.

Silver looked up at him. “I meant it, you know.”

“That I’m an asshole? I know.”

“No. I mean, _yes_ , you son of a bitch,” said Silver, letting his eyes drift shut as Flint rubbed his scalp. “But I meant it when I said I’m not interested in becoming a captain. It’s not like I’m not running this ship as it is _anyway_ , but --”

“But what?”

Silver’s eyes opened slowly. “It’s more _fun_ with you.”

Flint wanted to kiss him, and he’d long ago learned to give into that urge, so he did, craning over chair. He cupped the back of Silver’s head to pull him closer, and Silver went easily, was already on his way.

When he finally pulled back. Silver was slow again to open his eyes. He looked at Flint with warmth and with hunger. “I believe,” he said, “you mentioned something earlier. Something about - making the world burn?”

Good. Freedom. Peace. These things Flint had already hunted down and captured. Now, the course ahead seemed clear to him, bright and obvious.

It was time now they started looking for some _fun_.

* * *

 

**Author's Note:**

> imagine silver walking in wearing [this](https://img.costumecraze.com/images/vendors/pony/93900-Adult-Captain-Meyer-Pirate-Hat-large.jpg) and then flint hears the kill bill sirens


End file.
